


the cost of living

by starcanopus (orphan_account)



Category: In Time (2011), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Stiles Stilinski, Rich Derek Hale, Romance, if u squint, there's a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starcanopus
Summary: Derek blinks, attention still anchored on where it had landed. He reaches out without thinking and brushes his hand over the green numbers set starkly against pale skin, pressing his index finger against the seconds ticking down, only vaguely aware of the other man sucking in a sharp breath.0000•00•0•06•08•10That can't be right."You...you have..." Derek glances up to see Stiles looking back at him with an unfathomable expression on his face. "You only have six hours left."The other man jerks his hand away, a pained look flickering across his delicate features before he quickly averts his gaze. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder, asshole."orAU in which people stop aging on their 25th birthday and time becomes currency





	the cost of living

**Author's Note:**

> Lol so I re-watched _In Time_ last night and of course my lizard brain was thinking about Sterek like half the time I was watching so here we are. If you aren't familiar with the movie, you can still read this because I tried to write it so it would make sense haha, but you can also [watch the trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdadZ_KrZVw) if it helps.
> 
> This was supposed to be only like 5k words of smut. I don’t really know what happened. Oops. Enjoy the 30 pages lmfao
> 
> also...tfw you write a fluff piece and then a nsfw piece like back to back...my mind...it amazes me sometimes

_ the cost of living _

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The guy is thin, that’s the first thing Derek pays attention to. He’s all long legs and pale skin dotted with moles and Derek _really_ shouldn’t be thinking this given the situation, but he can’t help but notice that his savior is also breathtakingly attractive, with full Cupid’s bow lips and messy, short dark brown hair that looks like someone has been running their hands through it. He’s wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt over a faded graphic tee with the Batman logo on it and worn out khaki pants that have definitely seen better days. The sleeves are rolled up, exposing the green glow of numbers on the man’s left arm. He’s more toned than Derek had expected from his first glance. Ratty Vans adorn his feet and they look so ancient that Derek’s afraid they’ll fall apart right then and there.

The pistol in the man’s hand is the next thing Derek takes note of—which, really, says quite a lot about his misplaced priorities—and he releases a breath of relief, infinitely glad that it’s not pointing at him.

Derek brushes off dust and dirt from his suit, grimacing when he sees the small tears at the knees where he’d hit the ground hard. His business suit's ruined now, there’s no doubt about it, not that he really cares that much about it since, after all, he had kind of been running for his life. He casts a dubious glance out the grimy window of the abandoned building, where the man has stationed himself at, his chest still heaving from having dragged Derek up the stairs. He’s peering out the window, hand clutching the hilt of the gun so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. Cracks are woven throughout the glass and through them, Derek can see the stars freckling the night sky and the dull light of the streetlamps below casting a dreamy glow over the man's profile.

“Yeah, I get that now.” Derek replies dryly, wiping his hands off on his jacket.

“No,” the guy steps away from the window, eyes blazing as he glares at Derek. The look sends a small thrill shooting up his spine and Derek quickly stomps on it. Bad Derek. No thinking about pretty boys when you're in perilous situations. No matter how alluring their eyes might be. The guy gestures at Derek with the hand not holding the gun. “I meant that you shouldn’t be in this _Zone_, dude! Dressed like that? You might as well be announcing with a flashing billboard that you’re from New Beacon Hills or something, not a ghetto like _this_. How much time do you even have?”

Derek clasps a hand instinctively over his left arm even though his sleeve is already covering it, where he knows the numbers read 00**80**•**05**•**7**•**12**•**21**•**60**. Well, something to that extent. It’s been a few weeks since he last checked.

The man sees his expression and shakes his head, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “Dude, I’m not going to steal from you. I know I’m from the ghetto but some of us _do_ have morals, you know.”

“That’s not—“

“Actually I don’t even want to know how much you have, don’t tell me. I might have a stroke if you did.” He looks back out the window.

An awkward silence falls over them and just as Derek's cursing himself for being the world’s shittiest people person, the guy rakes a hand through his hair and sighs, loping over to stick out a hand in greeting. "I'm Stiles."

"Derek." 

Stiles arches an eyebrow and releases his hand. "So, _Derek_, what are you doing in Dayton? No one ever leaves the Upper Zones to come here."

Derek takes a cautious seat on the threadbare couch in the middle of the room, hoping that it won't collapse under him. He sinks back when it seems safe enough. "Business.” He grunts. “My car was attacked in the middle of the street and a bunch of men took out my bodyguards. I ran for it. Ran into you. Here we are."

"Business." Stiles barks out a laugh, returning to the window to look outside again. "What possible business could you have here?"

Derek hesitates, briefly contemplating telling Stiles who he is, but ultimately decides against it. While the other man seems like he has good intentions, one can never be too sure. Especially not when his last name is plastered all over the time banks in the Zone.

“Just some stuff for the company that I work for.” Derek replies, and then hurries to change the topic. “So those people…they steal time?”

“Yeah. Minute Men.” A dark look crosses Stiles’s face. “Fucking vultures.”

“You know them. They do this a lot here?”

“Yeah.” Stiles sags, crossing his arms, and bounces his knee up and down. “They killed my father a few months ago. Took every last second of his and just left his body in the street for me to find. Hence the gun.” He wiggles it slightly.

“Jesus.” breathes Derek. He’s heard the stories before, of criminals who forcefully take time and leave bodies timed out in the streets, but New Beacon Hills has never had that problem. Of course not, why would it? No one who lives there has any rush or need to steal. His hometown’s people have all the time in the world. When he was younger, Derek used to think that the stories were made up, recited to scare small children into eating their vegetables or something.

The reality is a hard pill to swallow.

“I’ve been tracking the gang for months now.” Stiles shoots him a wry grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess that’s how I found you, idiot rich boy.”

Derek rolls his eyes, leaning his head back on the couch to stare up at the ceiling. Dust particles drift above him, illuminated briefly by the headlights of a passing car. It’s relatively quiet and Derek finally has some alone time with his thoughts, now that he’s not being chased by a gang of insane, pistol-wielding men.

It’s a terrible thing to think, but he can’t help but feel somewhat…glad that a problem had come up on his trip. He’s only been out of New Beacon Hills a handful of times before, but never to somewhere like Dayton and if the trip would have been like every one of his work days, then he just might have slammed his head against a hard surface out of frustration. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt…something. Something other than the usual, mundane routine that’s been on repeat for the past few years. Sometimes it itches at him, itches at his skin, screaming to get out, that he’s meant to do more, to _be_ more.

"Must be nice." Stiles mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Derek to hear, and finally leaves his post by the window to join him on the other end of the couch. He scratches at his left arm and the motion draws Derek’s gaze to it. "To have enough time to afford _bodyguards_." 

Derek blinks, attention still anchored on where it had landed. He reaches out without thinking and brushes a hand over the green numbers set starkly against pale skin, pressing his index finger against the seconds ticking down, only vaguely aware of the other man sucking in a sharp breath.

0000•00•0•0**6**•**08**•**10**

That can't be right.

"You...you have..." Derek glances up to see Stiles looking back at him with an unfathomable expression on his face. "You only have six hours left."

The other man jerks his hand away, a pained look flickering across his delicate features before he quickly averts his gaze. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder, asshole."

"No, that's not what I..."

Derek huffs out a sigh and stands up, shrugging out of his suit’s jacket as he unbuttons the cuff on the right sleeve of his dress shirt.

"What are you doing?" asks Stiles sharply, straightening in his seat.

Derek doesn't answer right away and instead pushes up his sleeve all the way to the elbow. "Here,” he holds out his right arm, jerking his chin at the other man, "Let me give you some time."

He immediately knows he's said the wrong thing because Stiles's expression shuts down and his jaw tenses. "I don't want your _charity_, man."

Christ. Derek sits down again, still holding out his arm and rubs tiredly at his stubble with the other hand, trying not to let frustration bleed into his voice. "It's _not_ charity. Just...let me give you some as thanks. At least enough for how long you've spent pulling me out of this mess."

Stiles’s lips thin but Derek is not going to take no for an answer—because only _six_ hours, what the _fuck_—and it must show on his face, because the other man breathes out a harsh sigh through his nose and thrusts out his right arm, clasping his hand over Derek’s forearm. A small shiver runs through Derek at the warm touch and his eyes run over the long, pale fingers resting against his own tanned skin. A cough draws him out of his daze and Derek flushes, avoiding the man’s amused gaze to close his fingers over Stiles’s forearm, twisting so his arm is now lying under Stiles’s. Derek lifts his head so he can face the other man, who he finds looking back at him with a strange expression on his face.

Derek’s reluctant to release his arm, but Stiles must not feel the same way because he jerks away after what must have felt like a suspiciously long time to him, and peers down at the numbers in shock. Stiles’s eyebrows knit together in a frown as he grits out, “You gave me two whole weeks. I’ve known you for like two hours.”

“Oh,” Derek shrugs, making himself busy by rolling his sleeve back down. “My mistake.”

He receives a suspicious glower from Stiles who’s clearly not fooled, but Stiles doesn’t say anything further.

A silence settles over them and Derek finds himself stealing more looks at the other man, who’s now hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, seeming to be deep in thought.

"Is it like that?" asks Derek quietly, not wanting to spook the other man again. "Every day?”

He's under no illusions that everyone in the world is fortunate enough to have years, _centuries_ like the wealthy in New Beacon Hills, who can essentially afford to live forever. Like Laura, who has over a hundred years on her clock. Like his mother and father, who each have _thousands_ of years on theirs. He knows that in ghettos like Dayton, people are lucky to have even a week on their clocks at any given time. He's just...never seen it in person before. One _so_ _close_ to timing out like Stiles's. Derek looks at him and sees a vibrancy to the other man's amber eyes, and his heart starts to feel so painfully...heavy.

And the fact that he’d saved Derek, despite knowing that every second he wasted helping him was a second lost from his life…Derek swallows thickly. He’s never met someone so unselfishly _good_. Even Kate, who’d been wealthy beyond belief, had tried to take advantage of him and yet here sits Stiles, perfectly aware of his status, desperately in need of more time, but doesn’t _want _Derek’s.

Stiles rakes a hand through his hair and chews on his bottom lip for a bit before letting it go. Derek stares at the glistening pink skin for longer than he should. "Yeah. Yeah, I live day to day." A bitter laugh escapes him and he slouches back into the couch, looking exhausted. He tucks the gun into the holster hidden on his belt under his shirt. "Sometimes I’ll be down to my last five minutes before I get paid again. It happens more than I’d like.”

“How…how do you deal with that? Always so close.”

“We keep watching our clocks.” Stiles looks at him, a humorless half-smile on his face. “We run.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long pause before he hears the other man speak again.

“I think they’re gone.”

Derek looks up. “What?”

Stiles gestures at the window. “I don’t hear anything anymore, and their cars are finally gone.”

“Oh, that’s good.” A strange rush of disappointment surges through him and he stands, about to thank the man and be on his way again. If he could find his way out of this godforsaken city.

“You should probably come home with me.”

Derek chokes. “_What_?”

“What? No! That’s not what I meant!” Stiles flushes, waving his hands in front of him. “It’s not safe out here at night, and I can’t help you get out of the city so I think the best thing would be to wait until tomorrow morning. My place is the safest place I can think of. And besides, you don’t have any way of contacting anyone because those guys totaled your phone.”

Derek really should say no. He’s been warned, over and over again, by his mother, by his uncle, to stay away from people running out of time. There’s just… something about the other man though. Stiles is fast, wild, and unpredictable; he’s everything that Derek has never seen before and for the first time in his life, Derek finds himself wanting something that he can’t have. It’s never been a problem before. Because of his last name, everyone wants to be something to him.

But Stiles, _Stiles_ doesn’t know who he is. He’s kind and decent and that’s just because of who he _is_, and not who _Derek_ is, and Derek finds himself longing for a man he’s only known for a few hours.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

“Two hours.” The bus driver drawls, popping her bubblegum obnoxiously.

A sudden motion catches Derek’s attention and he looks at Stiles to see the other man withdraw his arm just before it touches the scanner.

“It was one hour last week!” Outrage colors Stiles’s tone. He glares at the scanner as though he could will it to combust.

“And now it’s two. Pay up, pretty boy, or get the hell off my bus.”

Derek fidgets uncomfortably and clears his throat, “I could—”

“Ugh.” Stiles shoves his wrist back under the scanner and the fare is withdrawn from the clock on his arm.

Derek quickly copies the motion and follows Stiles to the back of the bus, taking the seat next to him. He’s never been on one of these before, and sweeps his eyes over his surroundings curiously to see many seats—many of them worn and materials ripped from use—and handles dangling from the bars attached to the top of the bus.

There’s still irritation rolling off the other man in waves and he gets the feeling that Stiles doesn’t really want to talk about it so Derek just looks out the window on the opposite side of the bus, watching as the buildings pass by one by one.

A few minutes tick by before something out of the corner of Derek's eye catches his attention and he straightens, eyes following the moving figure outside. The man looks terrified, like he’s running for his life and Derek’s gaze cuts to the area behind him but he doesn’t see anything. No one is following him.

Then the man jerks forward unnaturally, suddenly, like he’s having a seizure, limbs pinwheeling and then he’s flat on the ground, facedown and unmoving. Derek’s breath hitches and he curls a hand over the headrest of the seat in front of him, standing halfway, about to tell the bus driver to stop but stops when Stiles places a calm hand over his, shaking his head.

He sits back down, not needing to see the the body to know what the clock says. The green, fluorescing numbers on the man’s arm have already faded to black.

0000•00•0•00•00•00

The unlucky thirteen.

“That’s what happened to my mom.”

Derek looks at Stiles, who is following his gaze out the window, though the body is long out of sight. He has to lean closer to hear as Stiles continues quietly, “The bus fares went up and she didn’t have enough. I was waiting for her and when she didn’t show, I knew what had happened so I ran and ran and _ran_ until I could see her running towards me. She timed out in my arms.”

The heavy feeling in Derek’s heart returns. “How old were you?”

“Eight.” Stiles scoffs and tears his gaze away from the window, rubbing angrily at his neck. “My clock hadn’t even started yet and I already hated it. Hated that it started at twenty-five instead of earlier because I could have given her something, just enough to get her to my dad, or just enough to even say goodbye.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t understand, likely never would. This is not a world that he’s used to, people fighting for scraps, for just a minute more of their lives simply to avoid dying in the streets. The only thing he can think to do is put a hand on Stiles’s knee, hoping that the touch can serve as some comfort, no matter how small. “I’m sorry.”

He’s pleased when Stiles doesn’t pull away and instead settles his hand atop Derek’s.

“How long have you been twenty-five?” asks Derek, thumb absently tracing the back of Stiles’s hand.

“Going on three years soon. You?”

“Nine.” Derek’s lips tug up into a small smile. “Guess I’m a just little older than you. You can never tell, these days.”

In New Beacon Hills, it’s impossible. Someone’s mother-in-law, wife, and daughter could all look interchangeable, all frozen in youth. Derek’s seen it more than a few times at cocktail parties and other formal events his mother drags him to. He’s still not used to it, even after all these years. Thank god his sisters don’t look too much like his mother. That would be a nightmare.

A hollow sounding laugh escapes from Stiles and he finally tugs his hand away from Derek, folding his arms and tucking it under his armpit. “Yeah.”

* * *

“Well,” Stiles stands to the side so Derek can enter the apartment. “This is me. It’s not much, but you’ll be safe for the night.”

He motions to the broken cell phone that Derek had taken out to fiddle with. “I’m- uh, good with technology so I could probably fix that for you. Can’t fix the screen but the damage elsewhere doesn’t look too bad. I don’t have a phone—it’s too expensive—but I can probably get that up and running for you by tomorrow morning so you can contact your people or whatever. You shouldn’t use the payphones outside. You shouldn’t step outside at all actually, until your people come get you. In this city, people would kill for a day.”

He shuts the door behind him and locks it.

Derek’s chest swells with gratitude. “I…thanks. You don’t have to do this.”

A solemn look is his only response along with, “I want to.”

Stiles drops his keys and relieves his holster onto the counter, motioning for Derek to come in further. “Bathroom’s over there. You look like you could use a shower. I’ll get some spare clothes for you.”

Derek nods silently, shrugging out of his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. He takes the opportunity to glance around the apartment as he undoes his tie, absorbing the details. It's small. The kitchen is combined with the living room, a small table and two chairs near the entrance, a couch crammed against the wall where Stiles had disappeared behind, presumably where the bedroom and bathroom are. The walls are a calm beige, paint peeling near the corners of the ceiling.

When he enters the bathroom he sees that Stiles has already placed a pile of clothes neatly folded on the sink’s countertop, along with a fresh towel.

Hot water beats over his head in steady rivulets, washing and stripping his body of the filth and dust that had accumulated on his skin after a half day of being on the run. The water pressure isn’t high, but it’s enough to finally allow Derek’s muscles to relax and he sighs, rolling his shoulders back to work out the kinks.

When he finally steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he heads into the living room and finds Stiles tinkering with his phone, an intense expression on his face and a screwdriver clamped between his teeth. Derek nearly forgets to breathe as he stares at those pink lips wrapped aroun…

Derek pinches his arm to snap himself out of it and clears his throat. He runs a hand through his dark hair. “Hey, Stiles.”

“Yeah, whath up?” The other man’s voice is muffled by the screwdriver and he doesn’t look up, he’s so focused on the piece of circuit in front of him.

Derek holds up the t-shirt that Stiles had given him. There’s a Star Wars logo on the front and Derek eyes it, amused and surprised at how he finds it so endearing that the other man is such a geek. “This doesn’t fit. Do you have anything else?”

Stiles pauses to pull the screwdriver out of his mouth so he can speak clearly, though he’s still squinting at the phone. “Damn, I thought that might happen. I mean, what with you looking like all that and me being just a thin slice of white bread buttered with sarcasm. You know, my buddy Scott sometimes stays over and I probably have some- somethi—“

Derek’s head snaps back around when he hears a loud clatter. Stiles is staring at him, hand frozen in the air next to his mouth where he’d been holding the screwdriver that’s now lying on the table. He frowns, puzzling over what had happened before he remembers that he’s completely shirtless. Completely naked actually, save for the white towel cinched securely around his waist. The tips of his ears grow warm and Derek freezes, though so does Stiles who seems to be turning redder by the second. Clearing his throat, though the sound is pathetically soft and strangled, Derek subtly moves the t-shirt so it's in front of him and the motion seems to snap Stiles out of his stupor. The other man scrambles to his feet, knocking over the chair he'd been sitting on. 

"Right! Right, Scott, my buddy, my dude." Stiles rubs the back of his neck and hurries past Derek, avoiding his gaze. "Like I was saying, he probably has something that could fit you b- ahem, better."

He disappears into his bedroom for a good minute before coming back out with a pair of sweatpants and a larger t-shirt. "Here. These were always too big for Scott so they'd probably fit you." 

Derek exchanges them for the Star Wars shirt in his hand, noticing that Stiles is still looking pointedly away from his chest, the back of his neck flushed pink. "Thanks."

He changes quickly into the clothes. The shirt's still a little tight around his shoulders but it's better than the other one. He wanders out of the bathroom to see Stiles standing in the kitchen, a mixing bowl placed on the counter as he cracks two eggs into it.

Amber eyes flick to him. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Great." Stiles's lips lift upward into a smile. He gestures to the small dinner table and pulls out a cutting board simultaneously. "Just take a seat. Should be done in a few." 

Derek pulls out a chair and sits down, without tearing his gaze from Stiles. The other man is expertly dicing green peppers now, his attention solely focused on the task at hand.

“Do you know how to cook?” asks Stiles when he finally looks up to see Derek staring at him.

He shakes his head, deciding against mentioning the fact that his family has its own personal chef and pâtissier. The other man just snorts, beckoning him over. “Here, I’ll teach you.”

Derek hovers next to Stiles who immediately begins talking all while pouring some milk into the bowl. “Right, so I’m making some French omelets, because Holy God, am I in the mood for some of that cheesy goodness after that wild fucking adventure we just had today. It’s pretty easy. So first things first, crack some eggs, which I already did. Obviously. And then pour about a fourth of a cup of milk in with it, add just a pinch of salt and pepper, and whisk it all together.”

Stiles’s long fingers grasp the cooking utensil expertly, whisking it back and forth in the bowl tucked under his arm until the ingredients seem to have blended together properly. He shoots Derek a small grin before moving on, dumping the contents of the bowl into a skillet that he’d already been heating up at a medium. “Once the eggs set, just shove these cooked parts over to the center so the rest of it can get cooked.”

He works in comfortable silence and Derek finds his attention directed towards Stiles’s face instead, noticing just how expressive the other man’s features are, how Stiles would screw up his nose unconsciously as he pushes the eggs with a spatula, how his eyebrows twitch randomly sometimes.

Derek trails his eyes over the other man’s moles, following them down to his neck and wondering just how far across Stiles’s pale skin they extend to.

“-rek. _Derek_.”

He startles out of his daze to find Stiles looking at him strangely. Derek clears his throat, shoving a hand into his pocket nonchalantly. “Yeah.”

“Eggs are done,” Stiles says slowly, still eyeing him. “So now we just put the rest in. Cooked ham, onions, peppers, and cheese.”

He scrapes the rest of the ingredients into the skillet, poking at them with the spatula to even out the distribution and with one flick, flips half of the omelet over so it’s closed. “Aaand voila, we have our sustenance.” says Stiles, grinning wildly as he scoops up the omelet and deposits it onto a plate. He hands it to Derek, who shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t, you—”

“Re_lax_, big guy.” Stiles laughs and Derek swallows, trying not to look at how the man’s neck extends to show off the pale line of his throat. He shoves the plate at Derek again and this time he takes it. “I’m making another one. Go eat, you look like death warmed over. Forks are in that drawer.”

* * *

“_Fuck_ me." 

Stiles glares at his hand.

"You're cheating, right? You have to be cheating."

"I'm _not_." laughs Derek, throwing down the last of his cards. The both of them are sitting on the ground in front of the couch, used deck spread out in front of them.

The night had still been young after both of them finally finished eating, so Stiles had whipped out his vintage set of cards (“DC, my dude, DC all the way”), and they’d been playing card games ever since. Derek quickly learns that the other man is fiercely competitive, though in a good way, all exaggerated motions and dramatic sighs. It’s a good distraction from the fact that he’d nearly died tonight, and he suspects that Stiles had coerced him into playing for that purpose exactly.

It's light and calming and Derek…has fun.

He doesn’t think he’s laughed so much in one night before.

Stiles throws down his stack of cards, folding his arms irritably, but he’s smiling. “You’re good at this.”

“I have two sisters and two brothers. I like to think I’ve learned a couple things from playing with them.”

“Big family.” Stiles whistles, sounding impressed. He leans back on his fists. Derek’s eyes glance over how the motion forces Stiles to tilt his head back, exposing the long length of his neck again.

“Yeah.” Derek clears his throat. “They’re pretty great.”

“Are you the baby of the family?”

Derek snorts and shakes his head. “No. I’m the middle child, actually.”

“Must be nice,” Stiles sounds wistful. “I’m an only child.”

“Do you like it?” Derek scoops up his cards, packing them together neatly. He admits, “Sometimes I wish I had a little space. It gets crowded. I have my own place, but I’m not there most of the time. My family likes living together.”

“Eh.” Stiles shrugs. “Sometimes it gets lonely. But my buddy Scott helps me out with that.”

Derek tries not to sound jealous. It’s not the first time the name’s come up. “Oh…who’s he?”

“My friend,” Stiles grins at Derek and winks. Clearly, he’d failed. “He’s like a brother to me, don’t worry. You’re the only man in my heart right now.”

Derek stills, nearly dropping the stack that he’s absently shuffling. He knows that Stiles is joking but just hearing that somehow lights up the longing in Derek’s chest again. “Yeah?” He tries to sound casual, but it comes out more breathless than he’d have liked.

“Mm. Yeah.”

Derek’s gaze drifts to Stiles, something foreign digging its way into his stomach. Stiles is smiling absently, eyes sparkling as he organizes the messy stack of used cards in front of them, long fingers dexterously flicking them so they all face the right way.

When he reaches a hand up to Stiles’s face, the other man stills, lips parting in surprise as his eyes flicker towards Derek.

They’ve been dancing around this the entire night.

He knows that Stiles looks at him when he thinks he’s not paying attention. Hell, he looks at Stiles too, looks and _looks_, and he’s not as quick to look away when the man catches him staring. He’s made it pretty clear that he wants Stiles. He just doesn’t know for sure if Stiles wants _him._

Derek leans forward tentatively.

Everything is quiet, apart from the humming of the refrigerator and the occasional car screeching out in the street. He searches those dark amber eyes for refusal, for disgust, and finding nothing, Derek caresses Stiles’s cheek, smoothing a thumb gently over the man’s lips, lips that he’d been _dying_ to touch ever since he had first laid eyes on them. They’re just as soft as he’d imagined, plump and full, and before he knows it, he’s pressing his own lips against them.

The kiss is chaste, only lasting for a few seconds before he pulls away to gauge Stiles’s reaction.

He’s suddenly struck by how much more carefree Stiles looks now, eyes wide with surprise and face free of worries and lines. The pad of Derek’s thumb brushes back and forth slowly against Stiles’s cheek and he breathes out incredulously, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

It’s true. Derek has never seen anything quite like him, _touched_ someone quite like him. His entire life has always been so dull, moving yet stationary at the same time, always doing what he’s _supposed_ to do, never really searching beyond himself.

But Stiles, Stiles is different. Stiles is _exciting._ He’s bursting with life, with vibrant colors, with restless energy vibrating in his limbs, just aching to break free.

Derek’s never seen anything quite so magnificent.

There’s a long enough pause for Derek to begin drawing back, afraid that he’s stepped out of line, kicking himself mentally for taking advantage of Stiles’s kindness and hospitality.

But then suddenly Stiles is surging forward, reconnecting their lips with a ferocious intensity that catches Derek off guard. His long arms come up to wrap around Derek’s shoulders and they both gasp, leaning into open-mouthed kisses that are far from innocent now.

Something ignites in his stomach, something wild and _pleasant _and it spreads throughout his body.

Stiles shuffles over awkwardly without breaking their kiss, straddling Derek's lap and folding his long legs so his knees rest against the ground. His hands come up to frame Derek's face and everything's so scorching, passionate, _demanding_. Derek runs his hands up and down the other man's back, fingers brushing over the knobs of Stiles's spine, ducking them under his shirt to whisper over smooth skin.

Their tongues tangle, fighting for dominance and Derek finally slides his hands under Stiles’s ass, getting to his feet. A sound of surprise rips from Stiles’s throat but the other man takes it all in stride, curling his legs around Derek’s waist for leverage.

They don’t even make it to the bedroom before Derek is slamming Stiles up against the wall of the hallway, his teeth capturing Stiles’s lower lip and sucking on it. It’s electric, enthusiastic, and Derek could really lose himself in the feelings Stiles is eliciting out of him. But then Stiles is dropping his feet to the ground, grabbing the collar of Derek’s shirt and spinning him around, reversing their positions and crushing their bodies together. His hips circle, rubbing up against Derek’s crotch as he moans into his mouth.

Derek goes rigid when he feels his hardening cock press up against Stiles’s, both bulges covered by their layers of clothes but still tangible, scrutinizing the other man’s face for permission.

He has it, from the way Stiles hooks his fingers into the waistband of Derek's sweats and yanks them down sharply. “Take these off,” he gasps hungrily, grinding against Derek once more. “Come on, take your clothes _off_.”

Derek obeys, shucking off his shirt in one smooth motion, and smirks when Stiles’s breath hitches audibly in his throat. “Holy _God_, you’re built. I’ve been thinking about this all night, you don’t even know what you do to me. I wasn’t sure if you wanted- _fuck_, man, what do you do to get these?”

Hands glide over his abs and Derek flinches instinctively, muscles contracting. If anything, Stiles’s eyes darken even further. Derek huffs out a laugh. “I work out.”

“What, like…running?” Stiles is grabbing at his boxers, pulling them down as well and Derek steps out of them, his cock popping out, half-hard. Stiles shrugs off his clothes next, only struggling just a bit before Derek reaches over to help him out.

He shrugs, “Some of that, yeah.”

Stiles snorts, dropping to his knees, and the movement arouses Derek more than he could possibly imagine. “That’s probably when you would ever have reason to run. Because you got all the time in the world, don’t you, big guy?”

The words are a harsh reminder to the reality of how different his and Stiles’s worlds are, but he finds himself not thinking about it at all when a mouth closes over the head of his dick. Derek grunts, throwing his head back, and nearly brains himself against the wall.

It’s been a while since he’s had sex with anyone, but he knows one thing for sure.

Stiles gives _phenomenal _head.

Soft lips stretch obscenely over the length of his cock, tongue swirling against the vein underneath and Derek groans at the sight, fisting a hand in Stiles’s hair. It takes all he has to not snap his hips forward or push the other man’s face closer.

“Look at you.” Derek breathes, other hand cupping the back of Stiles’s head to tilt it up so he can meet the other man’s gaze. Stiles reaches one hand down to stroke his own dick. “God, your _mouth_.”

Fingers dig into Derek’s hips as Stiles goes down on him, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks once, twice, deep and slow, waiting until Derek’s cock is almost out of his mouth before sinking all the way back down again. The head of his cock bumps roughly against the back of Stiles’s throat and this time Derek can’t stop from thrusting forward, immediately feeling guilty when he hears Stiles choke.

“Sorry,” he gasps, trying to pull back, but Stiles doesn’t let him, fingers tightening into his hips. Instead, the other man just swallows and the feeling of his throat convulsing around Derek’s cock is just all too much. He knows for _sure_ that he won’t last for long if Stiles continues his ministrations, so Derek forcefully pulls away, reveling in the dazed look on Stiles’s face and the thin string of saliva that drips down the other man’s chin.

“Come on.” Derek pulls Stiles to his feet and pushes him toward the bedroom. “Bed. We should…on the bed.”

He mentally slaps himself. Wow, Derek. Smooth. Eloquent.

Stiles nearly trips as he staggers forward, arms pinwheeling, but Derek catches him with a laugh and picks him up easily, tossing him onto the mattress. Stiles bounces once before propping himself up on his elbows, spreading his legs and grinning at Derek lasciviously. His cock lays heavy and hard against his stomach and Derek’s mouth goes dry.

“What do you want?” He manages to ask, trying not to let show how undone he is. “Do you want to—”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Derek inhales sharply and then he’s crawling up the bed to hover over Stiles, gaze predatory as he devours the other man’s lips, tongue plundering Stiles’s mouth for all its worth. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips down Stiles’s neck, nipping and sucking, creating marks that he knows will be there the next day. Stiles pushes up to him, grinding against the thigh between his legs, fingers digging into Derek’s biceps almost painfully.

“Lube.” Derek manages to gasp when he finally tears his mouth away from Stiles’s neck.

“D-drawer.” Stiles doesn’t sound much better and he flails out a hand to the side, nearly smacking Derek across the face. “Sorry, sorry! First drawer.”

There’s fumbling and Derek’s pretty sure he knocks quite a few things to the ground in the process, but somehow he manages to grab the tube in hand, squeezing out a generous amount and coating his fingers with it, making sure it’s warmed up before he reaches a hand down between Stiles’s thighs to press his index finger into the puckered hole.

“_Fuck_!” Stiles’s voice cracks and his hands fist into the sheets. “D-Derek, _please_.”

Derek slides down Stiles’s body and presses butterfly kisses against his inner thigh as he sinks his finger in further, rotating, adding another to see if he can find the right spot. Closing his lips over Stiles’s cock, he suckles lightly at the head of it and sweeps his tongue just below the crown. Stiles arches his back when he slides in a third finger and the strangled noise that escapes his throat goes right to Derek’s crotch. Hands scrabble at his hair as the other man desperately tries to pull him up, but Derek resists the dull pain. “Please, _please_, I need…”

“What do you need?” murmurs Derek, flicking his tongue across the slit of Stiles’s cock, swollen and leaking. It’s slightly salty, but he savors the taste. His gaze cuts up to Stiles, who's worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “Tell me.”

“I need _you_. I need you in me, man,” begs Stiles, tugging harder at his hair. His thighs twitch around where they rest against Derek’s shoulders. “I need you in me like_ yesterday_. I need you to fuck me until I can’t walk.”

The filthy words have Derek hissing, shuddering with anticipation. “Shit, okay, condoms, do you want me to—“

“Oh my god, no, come _on_, diseases are so last century, just put your dick in me _please_.” Derek snorts incredulously at the words but Stiles babbles on, “I want to come on your cock, want you to come inside me, make me yours.”

Fuck.

At that, Derek surges upwards, capturing Stiles’s lips in a harsh, bruising kiss as he circles his hand around his own cock and pumps it once, twice before he decides that it’s enough and positions himself over Stiles, one hand sinking next to Stiles’s head to brace himself.

The look on Stiles’s face has heat pooling in Derek’s stomach. Stiles looks positively _debauched _beneath Derek with his legs spread wide open for him—_all _for his taking—and hands fisted into the sheets above his head. He’s panting, lips parted halfway, and a flush spreads all the way from his cheeks down to his collarbones.

Derek pauses just briefly to admire the moles scattered across his chest, tracing a hand over them.

And then Stiles lets out a desperate whine and Derek is shoving into him—raw, nothing to separate them—and when he bottoms out he groans with pleasure because _fuck_, Stiles feels so good, hot and tight around his length.

Derek drops his forehead down to rest his cheek against Stiles’s, panting into the other man’s neck as he braces his elbows on either side of Stiles’s head.

The only noises that fill the room after that are the sounds of skin against skin and the headboard of the bed knocking the wall in rhythm with Derek’s thrusts as he rocks slowly into Stiles again and again, bottoming out each time so that his balls slap against the other man's ass. It's _intoxicating _and everything is so hot and tight around Derek and he trembles with the effort of holding himself up.

“Oh my god, _fuck_, yeah Derek, just like that—” Stiles moans, and his head falls back into the pillow, dark hair damp with sweat. Derek’s never fucked anyone face to face before; it had always seemed too intimate, too strange. But with Stiles, it just feels…_right_. He stares down in awe at the other man’s face all screwed up with pleasure, mouth hanging open as desperate moans are punched out of him by Derek’s thrusts.

Stiles is loud in bed, just like how he usually is. He’s a _symphony_ of sensual noises, and Derek drinks in every heady moan, every whine, does his best to see what other sounds he can coax out of him.

Long legs lock around Derek's waist as Stiles lifts his hips to hook his feet into his lower back, heels digging in sharply to encourage him and pushing back to meet his thrusts. The new angle pulls Derek deeper into Stiles and his brain sputters for a second, lost in Stiles's gasps—"_There_, Derek, s_hit_, right there!"—and the exquisite feeling of tight walls clenching around his cock.

One hand ghosts across Derek’s side, groping at his skin greedily, and the other slides up Derek’s chest to cup the back of his neck, forcing him to look into Stiles’s eyes.

“C’mon,” Stiles slurs, smirking up at him with hooded eyes and _damn_, if that doesn’t do things to Derek. “Fuck me like you mean it, big guy.”

Derek curls his hand over a trim hipbone and pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in, burying his cock to the hilt in the welcoming heat. He pins down Stiles’s wandering hands on either side of the other man’s head, lacing their fingers together tightly, leaving no room for escape. This time he’s rougher, fucking the other man brutally with short and harsh snaps of his hips, and when Stiles cries out it’s almost too much for him to bear but he wants to hold onto this feeling for a little while longer, wants to be one with Stiles just a little while longer. His hips stutter but Derek distracts himself by mouthing at Stiles’s neck, tongue swiping at the purpling bruises there.

God, he tastes good. Slightly salty from the sweat beading up on his skin, but good nonetheless.

The noises that Stiles is making vibrate against Derek’s chest, not helping at all—gasps, whines, “ohgodohgodohgod”—and it’s not long before Derek is losing any semblance of control he had.

He doesn’t even touch Stiles’s cock before Stiles comes undone, spine arching and head thrown back as Derek’s name tumbles from his lips like a mantra. Derek stills, drinking in the sight of Stiles’s expression of ecstasy. The other man’s walls tighten around Derek like a vice and it’s only when streaks of white splatter against Stiles’s stomach does Derek resume his attention back on trying his hardest to fuck him into the mattress. Two, three more thrusts and Derek comes with a shout, burying himself to the hilt as his seed spills into Stiles.

His vision goes white as the orgasm washes over him and he collapses onto Stiles, panting into his ear breathlessly.

They stay like that for a long moment, Derek's dick softening inside Stiles until finally he goes completely boneless against him, breathing hard while dragging his nose against the other man's cheek, pressing soft kisses against every inch of skin he has access to.

The breathless silence is broken when Stiles starts to laugh, at first slowly and then it builds raucously.

Derek rolls off him with a little difficulty to quirk an eyebrow in puzzlement. He really hopes that isn’t directed _at_ him.

“That. Was. _Awesome._” Stiles pants up at the ceiling. “I’d give you a high-five but I can’t move, man.”

Derek rolls his eyes, though he does preen a little inside, and swings his feet off the side of the bed.

"Wait, where're you going?" Comes a needy whine. "I need cuddles."

He chuckles. "You want to cuddle while you're covered in dried semen?"

"...Good point."

Derek returns with a warm, damp towel and dries Stiles’s stomach off, wiping at his ass to clean out the come there as well. He just barely sets the cloth aside before Stiles pulls him back down onto the bed, throwing the sheets over them and snuggling close.

The other man flops a hand to the side weakly, turning off the nightstand’s lamp. The room is plunged into darkness, save for the twin glows of their clocks, arms tangling together.

“So. Eighty years, huh?”

A hand brushes along his arm and Derek turns his head to see Stiles staring at his clock in awe. Pale fingers drum softly against the numbers.

Propping his head up with one hand, Derek runs the knuckle of his finger down the side of Stiles’s cheek and says, “I really _can_ give you more, you know. I wouldn’t miss a couple months or so—”

“Don’t offer me time after we just had sex!” interrupts Stiles, punching him lightly on the arm, though he's snorting in amusement. “What is _wrong_ with you, man? I’m not some two-bit whore.” A shit-eating grin crawls onto his face. “Though I guess I probably was moaning like one, huh?”

Derek turns red and it takes everything he has not to splutter. God, why does he like this idiot so much? "You _know_ that's not what my intentions were."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes out, trailing a hand up and down Derek's chest, threading his fingers through the hairs there. Derek resists the urge to shudder at the warm sensation. "I know, big guy."

Derek huffs out a sigh.

"Can I ask you a question though?" 

"Shoot."

"Why do you keep refusing my time?" asks Derek curiously. "You know I can afford to give you months, _years_ even. So why turn me down?"

Stiles’s hand comes to a rest, splaying over the center of Derek’s chest where his heart beats, and the man sighs. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of reasons, I guess.”

“Because my father worked for every second that he had, up until he died. And every second that I have, I earned,” he says, “Because my mother didn’t get hand-outs. Because if I run out, then that’s on me and I know it's my time to go. I made peace with it a long time ago. The poor die young and the rich live forever. I wish I could change the system, but that’s just how things are.”

“Doesn’t mean that I can’t help you live for a longer time though.”

“Well then, tell me,” Stiles says, rubbing his fingers against Derek’s jaw, smoothing over his scruff. “Are _you_ living?”

“What?”

“Your life. Are you satisfied with it? Always worrying what mistake will put you into the ground, never feeling a single rush of adrenaline because you know that if you stay out of trouble, then you can live forever.” His eyes search Derek’s. “What does it really _mean_ to live, Derek? For you.”

“I…”

Derek’s mouth opens and then closes just as quickly.

He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t _know_ the answer to that.

And then the serious look is suddenly gone from Stiles’s face and he rolls his eyes and grins, wiggling around and tugging Derek’s arm over his body so he’s spooning Stiles.

“Didn’t mean to get all philosophical on you there.” He snorts. “Go to sleep, sourpants. Night.”

Derek just gazes at the back of Stiles’s head, the other man’s words still sinking into him.

“…Good night."

* * *

When Derek wakes, it's to the soft glow of the rising sun and a warm, heavy weight on his chest. He turns his head and finds his nose buried in a headful of dark brown hair. A smile crawls onto his face when the memories of the previous night come back to him. He gently extracts himself from Stiles’s clutches, hesitating when the other man stirs a little, lips smacking together in his sleep.

Derek heads into the living room after brushing his teeth, feeling the morning chill sink into his bare skin. He finds and pulls on his own clothes even though they’re dirty and torn, looping the belt through the hoops of his pants, because he doesn’t want to poach Stiles’s belongings when he leaves. The thought of leaving sends a pang shooting through his heart, but he’s trying not to think about it. Last night had been…he still doesn’t have the words for it. Stiles had made him feel things that he’d really never felt before, not with any of his previous relationships or one-night stands, not even in his entire life.

He makes and pours himself a cup of coffee, leaning over the kitchen sink to look out the window. The city is already awake, bustling with workers hurrying along to their jobs. Derek scans the neighborhood. The buildings are worn down, paint peeling and cracks running through plaster like spiderwebs. He can see some figureless lumps in the doorways of some of the buildings, in the alleys. He can’t tell if some are sleeping or have just timed out.

Large black letters on a faraway building catches Derek’s attention.

** _HALE CORP. BANK_ **

Derek sighs, taking a sip of coffee. It’s where he’s technically supposed to be right now actually, fixing everything that's wrong with the Dayton branch. His mother had nearly had a coronary when he finally put his foot down and told her he was going on a business trip to all the ghettos. It wasn’t right, how much of disarray their company’s banks in those cities had fallen into. She’d caved, only after assigning two entire cars of bodyguards to go with him. Derek snorts. Fat lot that did.

"Mmm." He turns to see Stiles yawning and stretching as he enters the living room, pants slung low on his hips and oh, so deliciously shirtless. Derek greedily eyes the other man's lean torso as it ripples when Stiles pulls at his arms. “Morning, Derek.”

“Good morning.”

Stiles pads up to him, leaning his chest against his back, hands slipping around Derek’s waist to lace together in front and rest on his abdomen. He sets his chin on Derek’s shoulder and he can feel the other man’s smile when Stiles presses his lips to his shoulder. They both watch the people traffic below for a long moment before Stiles speaks again. “I’m hungry.”

Derek smiles, turning slowly to face him. “Yeah? What do—”

His voice trails off into a strangled choke when Stiles slides down onto his knees, reaching for his crotch. Derek grabs the edge of the countertop behind him with one hand for support, stunned.

“Stiles!”

“What?” Stiles gazes up at him innocently, all while undoing the belt buckle with long fingers and unzipping the fly of Derek’s pants. “I’m _starving_.”

The coffee cup in Derek’s hand is set down with no small amount of force behind him and his thighs tense when he feels a familiar, wet heat sinking over his cock. He tips his head back, resisting the urge to bury his hands in Stiles’s hair again because it seems like the other man wants to be in control this time. The blowjob is messier this time around, sloppy and rushed and Derek comes with a low groan, spilling down Stiles’s throat and he curses when Stiles doesn’t even flinch and just swallows it all. 

_Fuck. _

Stiles pulls away, grinning as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and Derek drags him up to seal their mouths together in a hot and breathy kiss.

He sucks Stiles off against a wall and fucks him over the kitchen counter before they finally get to breakfast, though it’s more of a brunch now, limbs tangled together as they sink onto the couch in a post-sex haze.

“Oh yeah, I think your phone’s fixed.” Stiles mentions, settling against Derek’s chest, “I just plugged it in to charge though, so it’ll be a few minutes before we can tell anything. Cross your fingers that it works because I really don’t fancy letting you outside where the Minute Men are probably lurking around every corner searching for you.”

Derek makes a sound of acknowledgment. He’s not quite ready to leave the comfort of Stiles’s apartment just yet, doesn’t quite want to return to his life of monotonous phone calls and boring dinner parties just yet.

Just a little while longer.

Then he’ll leave.

Stiles dumps their empty plates into the sink and returns with a pad of paper and a pencil, taking his place in Derek’s lap once more and leaning back against him. He begins to scribble, hand flying over the paper. “Things for you to try.” Stiles says in response to Derek’s sound of confusion. “Consider it a bucket list, if you will.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, a half-smile quirking up on his face. “I see.”

“You ever gone skinny-dipping?” Stiles asks, twirling the pencil in his fingers. “Ever just jumped into the ocean when the waves are at their highest?”

“No.”

“I’m putting it down then.” hums Stiles, jotting it onto the notepad.

“That’s a really long bucket list.” Derek squints at it. There’s quite a bit written on it already.

_Marathon the Batman movies (including cartoons) in just boxers. Plus buttered popcorn._ _And ice cream. <strike>So that I can lick it off of y</strike>_

What even.

“Gotta make sure that when I’m not around, you’re actually putting all your years to use, big guy.”

Derek’s heart clenches at that but he tries to ignore the ache by brushing his lips against the side of Stiles’s neck, mouthing at the hickeys that decorate the pale skin. “I can’t help but notice that I’m either only partially clothed or not at all in many of these.”

Stiles turns his head to don a filthy smirk. “I have a vested interest in your pecs.”

Derek bites down on his neck in retaliation for that comment and Stiles inhales sharply, dropping the notepad and pen in favor of wriggling around so he’s straddling Derek. The position brings up memories of the previous night and Derek’s cock jumps with interest.

Stiles grins down at him, lips curved upwards enticingly, and Derek’s stomach flip-flops.

_God_, he’s beautiful.

Before they can get anywhere though, there’s a deafening crash, the front door splintering open and Stiles is scrambling off of Derek and the couch, rushing towards where his gun is but backs up, both hands raised in surrender when he finds himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Derek surges forward, not exactly sure what he’s doing but when he sees the weapon pointed at Stiles’s face, a wave of terror comes crashing down on him.

Five men sweep into the apartment, and Derek recognizes them with cold realization.

It’s the men from last night.

A youthful man comes striding in behind them, surveying the apartment with curiosity. “Greetings, gentlemen.”

Derek doesn’t recognize him but he seems to be the leader, from the way he holds himself to how the other men look to him in deference.

"Daehler."

The name spits out of Stiles's mouth like a curse, and he's staring so hatefully at the man that Derek almost takes a step back from the force of it.

"Stilinski." The man cocks his head, an ugly grin spreading across his face.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles sneers, back stiff as he glares at the intruder. “You don’t like getting your hands dirty, you have your goons do it.”

The man—Daehler—shrugs. "My men were clueless as to who the Good Samaritan was. I thought it would be you. You're the only one I know in this city with the balls to hide someone from me. He wouldn’t have lasted the night without you. It was a lucky guess. And besides, consider me _very _interested in what he has to offer." He glances between Stiles and Derek and barks out a laugh. "Looks like you've been shacking it up with him, huh? Did he pay you to? Do you even know who he is?"

At that, Stiles hesitates, casting a glance towards Derek, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Derek winces.

“You don’t, do you?” Daehler snickers, elbowing one of his men who laughs alongside him like an idiot. “Stilinski, that’s Derek _Hale_.”

The shock is palpable and Stiles whips his head back around to stare at Derek. Derek lowers his gaze, not wanting to see the other man’s reaction.

This is it then.

This is when Stiles realizes how much time he’s exactly worth as a hostage. Nobody could resist that. Probably not even some people in New Beacon Hills.

“C’mon, Stilinski, hand him over.” Daehler urges, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll even give you a cut of the prize time. His mommy will be all too glad to pay up for her precious golden boy. We could have years, hundreds of them! What do you say?”

Derek closes his eyes, steeling himself for the worst.

“You can go _fuck_ yourself, that’s what I say.”

Derek’s eyebrows nearly fall off from how high they rise. He looks up to stare disbelievingly at Stiles, who has positioned him in front of Derek, one hand twitching towards the counter where his gun sits.

“Ah ah ah,” Daehler tsks, pulling out his own gun and leveling it at Stiles’s face. Derek’s blood goes cold when the safety is clicked off. “Pity. You’re just like your father.”

Stiles’s eyes go dark with rage and he lunges forward but Derek catches him, dragging him back and locking his arms around the other man. “Stiles, _stop_.”

“Listen to your boy toy, Stilinski.”

"I'll go." Derek pushes Stiles behind him and lifts his hands. "I'll go, just leave him alone."

"Derek, no. What—”

"Shut up, Stiles." He says sharply and swallows thickly when he sees the other man flinch. He’s grasping at straws, just hoping that this will be enough to keep those men away from Stiles. They wouldn’t kill him, he’s worth too much. But if Stiles continues to provoke them, Derek’s not sure if he can protect him.

Daehler smirks. “Good choice.”

Someone grabs his shoulder roughly, shoving him towards the doorway, gun pointing at him warningly for him not to do anything stupid.

“Boss.” One of the men steps toward Stiles and Derek tenses. “What about his time?”

“Leave him,” Daehler dismisses, already disappearing out of the room, “We’ll have _plenty_ with Hale here. Stilinski’s probably only got a day, max.”

Derek glances over his shoulder one last time to see Stiles staring after him helplessly.

* * *

The car ride is in silence, one of Daehler’s men sitting next to him and the man himself sits across from him, legs crossed. Derek’s heated glare is directed out the window at the buildings that blur by. They must have been traveling for a good ten minutes before the silence is finally broken.

“I gotta say, when my sources told me that Derek Hale was coming to town, I couldn’t quite believe my ears.”

Derek’s gaze cuts to him sharply.

Daehler smirks, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping it over the barrel of his gun. “Rich kid, born and raised in the Upper Zone, coming to _my_ humble city? I just couldn’t resist.”

Derek’s lips thin.

“It’s a nice ride, isn’t it?” Daehler runs a hand over the smooth upholstery. “Expensive. I was a few hours short when I decided to get it.”

“Want to know where I got the rest?” Daehler leans back, smirking and Derek narrows his eyes.

“Stilinski’s father.”

Hot rage surges through Derek and he jerks forward, his veins burning with fury. Stiles had lost his father, all for a couple of measly _hours_? For a _car? _“You—”

The gun is leveled at his face quickly and he stills, drawing back again.

“Stilinskis are like cockroaches, to be honest. Stamp on them and they scuttle right back. I’ll have to come back later to finish off Stilinski junior.”

Derek freezes. “Don’t- I said to leave him _alone_.”

There’s a long pause.

Daehler stares at him for a long moment and then he starts to laugh. “Oh shit, you _like_ him.”

He doubles over, cackling uproariously, clutching at his stomach. When he sits up, he swipes a finger under his eye as though brushing away a tear. “_Wow_, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought maybe you’d paid him a couple hours to fuck him or something. Lord knows he needs them.” Daehler leans forward, a disgusting leer on his face. “Tell me, how was he? Got any advice for me when I go have a taste myself?”

The only thing that’s keeping Derek from eviscerating the other man is the henchman’s gun pointed at his temple.

“They’ll never stop looking for you.” Derek growls, “You get any capsules from this ransom and the Time Keepers will never stop looking for them. You’ll never be able to put it on the black market.”

“Black market?” Daehler looks at him like he’s stupid. “Why on _earth_ would I want to get _rid_ of the time? No, no Mr. Hale, I’m taking it all for myself. I,” he jabs his weapon at Derek’s face viciously, “I want to live _forever_. Never again should I have to scrounge for _scraps_ in this fucking death trap of a city.”

“No one is meant to live forever.” Derek swallows. There’s a manic glint in the other man’s eyes and it’s then that he realizes Daehler is truly and completely out of his mind.

“Tell that to people like your mother.” Daehler scoffs. “Look at your h—”

He’s cut off. They’re all thrown to the side of the car with a sudden screech as the vehicle swerves sharply, hitting something in the street and crashing into the wall of an adjacent building. The airbags burst out, inflating rapidly.

“What the _fuck_,” Daehler snarls, righting himself and untangling his seatbelt. “What’s going on?”

“Sir, it was a spike strip.”

“Who the fuck set it?”

The driver scrambles for his walkie talkie and speaks into it frantically. Contacting the other car of men behind them, Derek realizes. He looks out the window to see the other car just idling at the end of the street behind them. “Hey! What’s going on back there? What do you see?”

“It’s- shit!” Most of what comes over is static and unintelligible, save for some yelling and loud pops that Derek recognizes as gunshots. “Stil- he followed us!”

“_Stilinski_.” Daehler growls furiously, hands gripping the driver seat’s headrest. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. How does he know where we’re going?”

Derek’s chest fills with relief and horror at the same time. Relief because Stiles knows everything about the Minute Men, where they go, where they hide. He’s seen the charts in Stiles’s room, all connected together with different-colored strings. Horror because Stiles is putting himself in danger once again for Derek.

Daehler barks out an order at the driver. “Get us out of here!”

“I can’t,” the man says desperately, trying to start the engine again. “Engine’s busted.”

Daehler swears and kicks the door open and reaches in to pull Derek out roughly. The henchman who had been sitting next to him follows, still training the gun at Derek’s head. Daehler levels his own weapon at Derek and jerks his head at the man and the driver, who had scrambled out as well. “Go fucking take care of Stilinski.”

“Yes sir.”

“He must really like you,” Daehler sneers, narrowing his eyes at Derek. “To bother coming after us.”

“Or maybe,” Derek counters hatefully. “You’re a piece of shit who killed his father and he’s a decent fucking human being who doesn’t want someone else’s blood on the streets.”

Daehler just sneers again.

Two more gunshots go off and Derek sees the two men Daehler had just ordered collapse to the ground off in the distance. Daehler swears.

It’s then that Derek lunges forward and tries to wrestle the gun out of Daehler’s hand, taking advantage of the momentary distraction. But the other man is faster than he’d expected and swings the butt of the gun around to slam against the side of Derek’s head. He hits the ground hard, pain shooting violently through his skull. Derek splays out his hands on the ground, trying to push himself back up but there’s a ringing in his ears where the butt of the gun had connected. The city’s residents must be far too used to violence or the Minute Men, because no one steps forward to interrupt Daehler.

A low snarl tears from Daehler’s throat as the man seems to debate his options, settling on kicking Derek in the ribs before forcefully grabbing his arm. “Guess I’ll just have to take what I can, then.”

Derek’s still too stunned to do anything other than resist weakly, trying to pull back his hand in vain. Daehler just tightens his grip, inhaling deeply, “_Fuck_, look at all those years. _Beautiful_. I can _finally_ get out of this hellhole.”

“Daehler, you great big fucking waste of space, get your hands off of him!"

Derek’s finally coming back around and he can see a blur off in the distance, about four hundred meters away. Stiles kicks the last of Daehler’s henchmen away from him, swinging his foot around to connect it with the man’s jaw and takes off toward them, lifting his gun threateningly. “Daehler!”

The man’s not listening. Derek’s pretty sure he’s going insane, drunk on the feeling of gaining years.

A gunshot cracks in the air. Someone screams.

Derek ducks his head instinctively, flattening himself to the ground further, but nothing happens. He lifts his head cautiously.

The ecstatic expression is frozen on Daehler’s face and Derek’s eyes drift down to where a splash of color appears. The other man looks down slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the thick trail of blood dripping down his chest. There’s a long pause before Daehler finally releases Derek’s arm, staggering forward drunkenly before collapsing to his knees on the ground next to him. A gurgle escapes the man’s throat and he claws at his chest as though he could remove the bullet that way.

Stiles has stopped running, legs arranged in a stance with his arms fully extended out in front of him. He’s squinting down the barrel of his gun and when he sees where his shot had landed, his mouth falls open triumphantly.

Derek yanks his arm back towards himself, staring down at the numbers in disbelief. How had...

He looks up at Stiles, who’s grinning madly, pumping a fist in the air.

Something must show on his face because the smile on Stiles's face quickly dies and he takes a step forward. He can see the other man say something and though he can’t hear it from this distance, he knows by how the word forms on the man’s lips. "Derek?"

He looks back down at his clock, swallowing hard, despair sinking into him, crawling and tearing at his stomach.

It’s all gone.

Daehler had taken it all.

Christ. He doesn't even have half a minute left. A hopeless feeling chokes him, tightening around his lungs like a vice. So this is what it feels like. Timing out.

Stiles takes another step forward, lowering his gun and taking off into a small jog towards Derek, forehead creased with worry. His gaze cuts between Derek and Daehler's body. And then a look of understanding slides onto Stiles's face, followed quickly by horror. The seconds tick down and Derek’s frozen, still clutching his head as he tries to make himself move.

The gun drops to the ground, forgotten, and Stiles is racing toward him now, feet pounding against the ground and violently kicking up dirt. He shouts urgently, “Derek, run!” 

Derek finally picks himself off the ground, ignoring the aching pain in his head, and wills his sluggish legs to start moving, pace quickening as he stumbles toward Stiles. Passersby stare at him but he knows it’s useless. Nobody here would be willing to part with even a second. Not when they face the same situation every single day.

“_Run,_ Derek!”

Nobody but Stiles.

Stiles, selfless and pure and still _good _despite what he’s been through.

Derek’s breaths come out faster, each more desperate than the last as the muscles in his legs strain to propel him forward. He’s running now, every step sending a shocking pain through his head.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**7**

He doesn’t want to die, he realizes with sudden clarity.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**6**

He wants to hug his family again, pull them close and tell them he loves them. He wants to feel the breeze of nighttime air brushing against his cheek again as he lays out on the grass, gazing up at the stars with his sisters. He wants to take a risk, wants to do something fucking crazy like jump into the roaring waves of the ocean behind his family’s summer home without a care in the world.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**5**

He wants late nights, laughing over stupid card games until his sides hurt. He wants breathless kisses and touches that charge his body like a live wire. He wants eyes that shine like sunlight dripping with honey.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**4**

He wants Stiles.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**3**

He wants _Stiles_.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**2**

Stiles’s hand is outstretched and he’s yelling something, expression frantic, but Derek can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears.

0000•00•0•00•00•0**1**

* * *

There’s no jolt in his chest.

He falls forward onto his knees, but it’s not to his death.

Derek pants, his free arm wrapped around Stiles, clutching him to his chest. Dust settles around them in clouds, each of their feet having skidded to a sudden stop as they crashed into one another. He's vaguely aware of his clock settling, no longer down to seconds, as Stiles pours time into him. He doesn't dare open his eyes. He’s alive. He's _alive_. His heart beats thunderously against his chest.

When Stiles finally lets go of him, he slings both of his arms around Derek’s neck, pressing his face into his shoulder.

“Good thing you work out, dude.”

Stiles’s mumble has Derek snorting, softly at first and then it turns into a full-blown laugh, filled with relief more than amusement, though it peters out into a strangled sob as he tightens the embrace. He doesn’t really want to ever let him go.

He sighs, exhaustion and relief coloring his voice, "Yeah. Good thing."

A screeching sound has Derek jerking up in panic, looking around for the source of the disturbance, but Stiles just puts a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. I called your people.”

The crowd parts, and the expensive Mercedes that pulls up next to them is all too familiar. Two Time Keeper cars also slide to a halt, flanking the other vehicle. Four men dressed in long coats exit the cars, government-issued guns in hand. The crowd disperses warily.

The Mercedes’ shotgun seat door opens and a blonde woman wearing sunglasses and a black pantsuit steps out, her hand resting on a sleek nine-millimeter tucked into her belt. Erica.

“You should go.”

Derek whips his gaze around to look at Stiles who has pulled away and is now staring at the ground, his jaw clenched tightly. The other man stands up and Derek staggers to his feet too, ignoring the aching pain in his head.

“No, wait.” He grips Stiles’s wrist. “I…”

He doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is that he’s not ready to leave yet, not ready to go back to a life without Stiles.

“Come with me.” Derek blurts out.

Stiles gives him a pointed look. “You know I can’t.”

“I’ll pay…I’ll pay for you. Shit, no that’s not what I meant—”

Stiles looks amused.

“I meant the Zone tolls for you, I’ll pay for them all.”

“I can’t let you do that, Derek. You know this.”

Erica swings around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger side door and stepping back to allow the occupant out.

“I’ll stay.” Derek says desperately. Anything, anything to just keep Stiles close to him. “Let me stay.”

“You don’t belong here.” Stiles gently extracts his wrist from Derek’s grasp. Worn shoes step backwards, away from him and Derek stumbles, following him forward, hand still outstretched.

“This isn’t your world.” Stiles says softly and the expression on his face is heartbreaking. He touches Derek’s cheek, sweeping a thumb across his lips just like how Derek had done so the previous night. Stiles leans forward and kisses them lightly. Derek tips his head forward, chasing Stiles’s mouth, reluctant to part from him but Stiles draws back, pushing at his chest. “Go home, Derek.”

Derek looks down, suddenly feeling self-conscious. His money, his worth, he knew it would come back to bite him in the ass yet again. It _always_ has. “Is this because I didn’t tell you who I am?”

“What? No.” Stiles laughs incredulously. “_No_, of course not. Derek, I would follow you to the ends of the earth, even though I’ve only known you for what, a day?” He laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief. “But we both know I _can’t_ follow you to where you need to go.”

And then Stiles is looking over his shoulder and Derek turns to follow his gaze.

“Nephew.”

He’s never been so glad and upset at the same time to see Peter. Glacial blue eyes fixate on his left arm.

“Christ, what did they do to you? How do you only have a _week_ left?”

His uncle stretches out an arm and Derek clasps it, watching the green numbers on his clock tick up and up until he’s looking at a decade. Peter looks around once at their surroundings and clucks his tongue disdainfully. “Get in the car, we’re leaving this shithole.”

“Wait.” Derek whips around, his heart jumping into his throat. Stiles. _Stiles_, who had given him half his remaining life just so he could get home. He needs…he needs to at least give the time back. He needs to thank him. “Stiles!”

Derek’s only met with blank stares from the curious bystanders and their judging whispers, and his heart sinks.

Stiles is gone.

He tries to linger, out of some foolish hope that maybe the other man would come back, but Erica gets her hands on him, fingernails digging into Derek’s arms painfully as she forces him towards the vehicle.

When he’s finally ushered into the safety of the car by Peter (“would you please just get _in_, you idiot”), his uncle turns to face him and arches an eyebrow.

“What the hell is a Stiles?”

* * *

"Okay, that’s it.”

A hand slaps the back of Derek’s head—_hard_—and he jolts up, lifting his face off his pillow to scowl at the intruder. Laura’s standing next to his bed, annoyance written across her features. She’s all dressed up to go out and Derek knows that she has a date with Jordan later that night.

“What the fuck, Laura?”

“Shut up.” She points her hand, the one holding her phone, at Derek. “What is _wrong _with you? Ever since Mom said you’re not to leave the Zone again, you’ve been moping around. For _days_.”

She’s not wrong.

He’s miserable. Ever since he had returned to New Beacon Hills, something had changed. Everything is much too slow here, much too monotonous. Well, the boring part hasn’t really changed. It’s just as dull as before, if not more. He doesn’t want to venture outside anymore, to have to deal with fake smiles and false promises. He’s never liked it, but after the last couple days, Derek _hates_ it.

Everything just feels…_wrong_.

And he knows why.

“I met someone.” Derek mutters, kicking his legs off the side of the bed and hunching up his shoulders.

The spot on the mattress next to him sinks down when Laura smoothes down her skirt and sits.

“Oh.” She breathes, fumbling with her phone uselessly. “Erica told me there was a boy.”

“Erica needs to keep her fat nose out of my business.”

“Derek,” his sister chides, “be nice.”

He just scowls.

She tilts her head, gaze flickering over Derek’s face, assessing him.

“This boy. Did he make you smile?”

Derek’s lips twitch upwards faintly as he remembers Stiles’s flailing arms and rambling paragraphs.

“He made me laugh.”

Laura makes a sound of surprise. “That’s…_really_? You haven’t laughed in so long. I thought that maybe you’d forgotten.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

Laura scrutinizes him for another long moment. “Do you…love him?”

“It’s…I’ve only known him for…” Derek drags a hand down his face. Fuck. “If I had more time.”

Time. He has all the time in the world but he can’t even use any of it for what he wants most. For _who_ he wants most. Derek glares down at the numbers on his arm that now indicate a grand total of two hundred years. It’s more than even Laura’s. His parents had really gone all out, scared shitless that they’d been so close to losing him.

“If I had more time, I think I would have fallen in love with him.”

Laura’s face falls. “He…he really means something to you.”

Derek sighs, “Yeah. He did. He…taught me how to live.”

He leans into Laura and she rubs his shoulder.

Then she pinches his shoulder, painted fingernails digging into him.

Derek scowls.

What was with all the women in his life trying to break his skin?

“Then I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want you to be holed up in your room like a pathetic moron.” Laura says, not unkindly.

Derek shrugs off her hand.

“Derek.” Laura sighs.

“You said he taught you how to live. So please, for the love of god, go live.”

* * *

“You’re to meet the new hire today in Conference Room 12,” Peter drawls, matching Derek’s every step. “They’ll be working under your Laura’s supervision since she handles the tech sector but she’s indisposed today. Besides, they’ll be working closely with Finance, I’d imagine. So you’re in charge of the onboarding process.”

“Fine.” snaps Derek, snatching the file from Peter’s hands, not bothering to open it. “What’s the position?”

“Well, aren’t you in the foulest of moods today. Technical Operations Officer.”

Derek grunts.

It’s been a shitty few weeks. He’s finally back at work after an extremely long break, milking his leave of absence for all its worth because he had been, for the lack of a better term, _pining_. Only after Laura had ripped into him and Cora had dropped by with his brothers, threatening to beat him up (“your little head injury be damned”), had he finally dragged himself up, shaved, and stepped outside for the first time in a long time.

He doesn’t really have any desire to talk to new blood, always so eager and desperate for approval.

The hallway is bright, lit up with LED strips on the ceilings. Derek blinks. It all still seems a little surreal to Derek, all the rooms and buildings in the city so clean and so…_normal_.

“Interesting kid.” hums Peter, tapping away at his phone. “Awfully proficient at IT and budgeting. Good thing we got him out of Dayton. His talents would have been wasted there.”

Wait, what?

Derek’s head snaps up. “What?”

Peter doesn’t respond, still flicking his thumb across his phone interestedly.

“Peter.”

His uncle looks at him innocently. “Hm?”

“Peter,” says Derek slowly, _warningly_. “What did you do.”

Peter just blinks at him—the bastard’s _fucking_ with him—before a shark-like grin appears. Derek’s one second away from punching the stupid expression off.

“Oh, very well,” his uncle sighs dramatically, “Your mother wanted to thank the boy who saved her son’s life so she had a car fetch him. Your sister wanted to as well. We met him at a coffee shop near the Zone border. They were charmed, I’m sure. We all were. Cute little guy. If you hadn’t been so ridiculously head over heels for him and if he hadn’t been so obviously pining after you, I just might have tried my hand at wooing him.”

Derek scowls at his uncle, about to open his mouth and rip him apart.

“Heel, infant. Honestly, what does he see in you? I think I’m much more attractive than you at the everlasting age of twenty-five. No murderous eyebrows or anything.” Peter sniffs. “As I was saying, we visited him. Your mother approves, by the way. Don’t know how he did it, but she’s probably planning a June wedding for you two already. I think she’s just glad that you finally have a good taste in lovers. Only problem is, people don’t just skip from a Zone like Dayton into New Beacon Hills. It just doesn’t happen. So I picked at his brain a little, because your mother couldn’t seem to find a solution easier than bribing the entire Time Keeper force. I, on the other hand, have an eye for things that are useful. I could already imagine the technological breakthroughs Hale Corp could make with a mind like his. So, I proposed for- Derek?”

Derek’s already walking away, striding down the hallway towards where the conference rooms are, the file clenched tightly in his hands. Derek doesn’t dare look at it. It needs to be real.

“Oh, I see, you’re not even listening to this poor old man anymore.”

He ignores the voice behind him, pace quickening as he nears the room, heart jumping into his throat.

Derek bursts into the room. There’s a figure sitting with their back to him in the sleek, leather swivel chair.

The person flinches, whipping around at the sound of the door bouncing off the wall and Derek finds himself staring at a warm, beautiful face with constellations of moles that he’d run his fingers over again and again, trying to memorize them. At lips that he’s so intimately familiar with.

"S-Stiles." He stutters, eyes widening when he sees Peter enter the room and stand off to the side, leaning against the ceiling-to-floor window and looking like every bit like the smug asshole that he is. An asshole that Derek will probably end up thanking profusely afterwards. In his mind. Because his uncle really doesn't need a bigger ego.

He looks the exact same as when Derek has seen him last, though gone are the old clothes. He’s wearing a blazer that’s a little too big for him, a different graphic tee underneath, with fresh shoes and pants.

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, eyes flickering over Derek’s form like he can’t quite believe it, but then a blinding smile slowly breaks out across his face and for the first time in weeks, Derek feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Hey, Derek.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Title from song: [The Cost of Living](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_8k9rNX2n8) by Craig Armstrong
> 
> For further reference, the [clocks](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lrRIBtpWjE4/VxDhDNSrkVI/AAAAAAAAAd0/WZll7o22RykPqlP5qx2JzyWWEALzhcAvQCLcB/s1600/time.jpg) are read like this: **years**•**weeks**•**days**•**hours**•**minutes**•**seconds**


End file.
